Second Chances
by Aearwen22
Summary: A young, homeless woman finds help from a very unusual source.  NOW COMPLETE
1. Hitting Bottom

Chapter 1 - Hitting Bottom

Marisol drew her jacket close about her and shuddered as she crouched in the shelter of the storefront overhang. California was supposed to be warm and sunny, not grey and drizzly and freezing without a sign of ice or snow. It wasn't supposed to be so hard to get a job here either. The land of milk and honey had proven anything but; it seemed a hard-hearted place where failure became a way of life all too easily, and the situation only worsened the closer it got to the holidays.

She cast her gaze about her into the surrounding dark yet again to see if Crazy Larry was anywhere nearby. Tall, with long, stringy, filthy hair, sallow skin and a light of real insanity glowing behind his dark eyes, Crazy Larry frightened her more than anyone else ever had, especially after awakening late one night to find him pawing to get at her through her blanket. Only her screams and the growing murmur of disapproval from the others sheltering under the freeway overpass that night had driven him off that time - but it soon became obvious he'd decided to wait for another opportunity instead of giving up entirely.

He smacked his lips every time he caught sight of her now, as if to remind her that he was hungry for her in ways she didn't even want to imagine; and the menace in his gape-toothed smile brought the hackles up on the back of her neck even in broad daylight. If her nightmares had a consistent villain of late, it would bear the name of Crazy Larry; and the very last thing she would want would be to encounter him again alone in the night.

"Miss? You need to move along now."

Marisol flinched hard in surprise, and then relaxed slightly when her nightmarish villain turned out to be someone far less threatening. The security officer that patrolled the shopping plaza had a kind voice, but she knew he had his job to do. No one was allowed to shelter in any of the covered doorways of this open-air mall after hours - no one. It didn't matter that the place was locked up tight, without a single pedestrian to beg for quarters. She knew this, but had been hoping against hope...

"Where can I go?" Marisol asked plaintively. "It's pouring."

The officer, whose rain pancho covered up any nametag, shook his head. "There's always the shelter, down on Fremont..."

Marisol shook her head vehemently. Everyone knew that the shelter was no safer than the overpass underpinnings. She'd had her baggage stolen there - and been beaten twice by others who had thought she might have drugs on her. There was no way she'd go back there. "That place is dangerous," she replied, her teeth chattering. "Can't you just look the other way - just for tonight? It's freezing, for pity's sake!"

"Sorry, miss." The cop sounded sympathetic, he really did. "I can't afford to lose my job." He extended his hand. "You'll have to find somewhere else."

Marisol sighed and let the officer pull her to her feet. "There _is_ nowhere else," she stated flatly.

"Sorry, miss. Move along now."

With a hand at her elbow, the officer escorted her to the corner stoplight and then stood and watched to make certain she crossed the street and kept on going.

There was only one other place she could think of to try to sit out the storm with any chance of getting completely out of the rain. An old, WPA-vintage bridge just outside the city limits spanned the creek that finally found an outlet into the ocean beyond; and the tiny ledge formed by the cement foundation beneath it could be accessed in good weather from the north bank. Few stayed there now after a recent deluge had undercut much of the vegetation that had supported the path, and the rain tonight no doubt would make things slippery and dangerous for anyone trying to seek shelter there.

Marisol shuffled down the street, wishing that the edge of town had more streetlamps. Light - even just a pool of cool neon - made her feel safe; and right now, in the dark and the cold rain, her mind was running wild with all the misshapen shadows that swayed and moved in the malicious storm wind.

She didn't know what made her turn around and look back toward the last streetlamp she'd passed, but she felt her heart start pounding in her chest when she saw a tall and looming figure scuttling along purposefully behind her. At her present speed, it wouldn't take him long to catch up to her. It had to be Crazy Larry - he'd seen her and followed her here, and now she was all alone where nobody would hear her scream...

Marisol cast her eyes about her desperately, searching for the slightest indication of a place into which she could dart and hide from a determined lunatic. All that she could see were the tall brambles and bushes that lined the immediate vicinity of the creek. Certain she had no other choice, she ducked her head and dove for the cover of the vegetation, mindless of the way the brambles caught at and tore at her jacket.

But she had not reckoned on being quite so close to the creek already. The ground beneath her feet suddenly gave way, and she was on her backside slipping uncontrollably toward the fast-running water. She let out an involuntary shriek as she tumbled over the reinforced embankment edge and into the icy water. It wasn't deep, but she was now soaked to the skin. Moreover, the rocks that lined the normally sleepy channel hosted a healthy growth of algae that made regaining a solid foothold so she could get back to her feet difficult.

There was a crash through the underbrush on the bank that told her that her pursuer was still on her trail and getting closer, and she took a hesitant step. Once more her legs flew out from beneath her, and this time pain exploded through her head just before a darkness the like of which she had never known before closed around her.

oOoOo

It was a miserable night, and he shrugged his cloak tighter over his shoulders and head as the intensity of the rain increased. It was one of the storms from the north, where while the rain was not quite freezing the wind could steal what little warmth was in a person all too quickly. Getting back to his cabin meant he would have to cross the stream from where he had set his snares, then walk nearly a half a mile. Considering the way the wind twisted this way and that among the trees of the Los Padres forest, the only thing that would be dry when he finally made it back to his cabin would be the two opossums hanging limply from his belt.

The storm had been threatening for the better part of a day, but had broken over him as if Ossë himself had decided to suddenly throw a temper tantrum. Even this far inland, he could hear the dull roar of the storm-driven waves crashing on the rocks at high tide. It was a sound that both comforted him greatly and made his very being ache. On the other side of that sea, _somewhere_, was home: people and places he would never see again, regardless the many Ages of exile he had served in penance for the violence committed against his kin.

But it wouldn't do to stew about such things with the full force of a true tempest breaking about his ears. The snares had been re-set and re-baited, meat for the pot for the next few days hung from his belt. It was time to find shelter and wait out the temper tantrum.

And that's when he heard it: a low shriek and then the sound of something pushing through bushes on the way to the banks of the stream. His ears quickly picked up a second set of rustling and crashing; something or someone was fleeing something or someone else, for one reason or another. Either way, it didn't involve him. He tugged on the hood of his cloak to protect him just a little more and continued on his way.

The shriek came again, along with a wet, slipping sound. The prey - the one fleeing - had evidently reached the top of the banks and slipped in the loose mud. Sounds of splashing below told him that the fall had carried that being all the way into the stream itself. From behind, the crashing grew louder, closer, more hurried, as if the one pursuing knew that its prey had stumbled.

He sighed and headed for the roadway that would become a rusted iron bridge over the stream. He had no intention of getting _that_ wet. Let those who didn't know the threat of loose dirt mixed liberally with rainwater make a mess of themselves without his assistance! Still, curious, he walked to the side of the bridge and gazed down on the drama taking place below.

Another shriek cut the air, followed by another, larger, splash. Into the middle of the flowing water tumbled a figure, and he cringed at the sound of flesh striking rock. Whoever it was, wasn't moving anymore – probably unconscious. He gazed, hoping to see movement, but… nothing… until…

From the bushes came a straggle-haired fellow who was now talking to himself at a near-shout. Again he watched, hoping to see a sign of simple human kindness from one who was able to one in need; but he bit back a growl when he saw the fellow bend over the fallen one and begin pulling on the clothing. Did he intend to steal the very jacket from that person's back in the middle of a storm while they lay helpless?

He straightened in disgust and took a few steps toward the other end of the bridge. It wasn't his business, he reminded himself harshly; these Second-born were more than capable of handling themselves without his help. In fact, his height and his tendency to wear his hair very long – just as he had for well on four Ages now – tended to make the After-comers nervous, which was fine with him because he wanted little to do with them either. And besides, he'd seen and heard enough to know how the Second-born treated anyone who was "different". He gave a glance over the metal railing, preparing to simply wish those below well and be on his way.

But the man wasn't helping the fallen person in the least. In fact, it now looked as if he were beginning to rifle through that person's pockets, with water washing over that one's face in a manner that could drown them, and then... No, he couldn't just walk away – especially when he saw where the fellow's hands were going once the zipper to the jacket was open. The figure beneath the protective coat was decidedly female, and the fellow's eagerness made him seem ready and determined to perpetrate the most foul of violence on her, despite the fact that her face was nearly covered with water half the time.

The drive to commit sexual mayhem was something endemic to the Second-born that he had never understood, something about the world he lived in now that sickened him to the depths of his _faë_. It didn't matter that Mortal women apparently had a kind of strength that sometimes allowed them to survive such abuse. As far as he was concerned, no woman should ever have to suffer that indignity, that outrage – Second-born or not. And _this_ time, of all times, he was just too close to the situation to walk away and pretend it wasn't happening, telling himself "it is not my business." If he walked away now, the violence would be as much his fault as that of the man already fumbling at his trousers.

He loosed a growl of outrage and vaulted over the bridge railing with a shout, determined to put a halt to what he was hoping wasn't happening below. "You there! Stop that!" He wished he had his sword, or something that would make him seem more of a threat, but even just his voice made the scrawny man – for man it was – shrink together and peer about nervously. He landed hard in the middle of a small stand of manzanita and brushed through it as if it were nothing with as much menace in his posture as he could manage. "I said, get away from her!"

The eyes of the living scarecrow that stared back at him held the light of true insanity, but tempered with enough cunning to know that the one challenging him was both bigger and probably stronger. With a scuttle that would have done a spider proud, the fellow followed the stream for a short distance before making a bolt for dry land. He glared at the fellow until tattered coat, stringy hair and filthy-looking jeans had slid, scrabbled, climbed and finally vanished into the brush and the downpour.

He looked down at the girl and frowned. All of that commotion over her, and she'd not moved a muscle. He sighed again, making a reluctant peace with the fact that his intentions for the evening had just taken an about-face. If he left this woman – nay, she was too young to be fully grown, surely! – this _child_ in the stream, either she would catch lung fever and possibly die, or that wretched excuse for a human being would be back to molest her again. Neither of those options were acceptable, now that he'd actually inserted himself into the situation; but the sole alternative meant picking up a drenched, utterly limp human figure and carrying it…

With a low grunt, he slung the girl over his shoulder, knocking the hood of his cloak back. Well, there was nothing for it now. He would just have to be as drenched as she was by the time he got her to his cabin.

oOoOo

As Marisol slowly awoke, she realized that she was actually warm - warm and dry! Her fingers moved and touched soft, warm blankets that were tucked in so tightly about her that she could hardly move. Her head ached, though, and the struggle to free a hand so as to touch the source of the agony made it begin to throb; and she let out a low moan.

"Don't move about. You hit your head when you fell, and you have quite a lump." The voice that sounded very close at hand was low, resonant, lilting, with a hint of an accent. "You're safe now." She felt someone sit down next to her - where was she? - to readjust the warm blankets after tucking her wayward hand back beneath them, and then they were gone again.

"Where... am I?" she murmured, wishing her vision would clear. "Who are you?"

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence; and then she felt the return of someone next to her. "I have some tea for you that will help with the headache. Allow me to help you." With that, a strong arm raised her up so that she could sip at the liquid from the mug that suddenly appeared at her lips. Marisol wrinkled her nose at the strange and slightly bitter taste, but otherwise relished the sensation of warm thawing her from the inside as it slid all the way down her throat and into a very empty stomach. "Just a few sips," the voice insisted and the mug vanished from her lips. "Let us make certain you can keep it down before adding more to it." Once more, the blanket was tucked in tightly around her before the pressure of someone sitting next to her departed.

Marisol blinked, and slowly the fog lifted so that her eyes could focus on the details. The first thing that came clear was that the room had only a very little light coming from a fire not far away and two candles. The fire itself danced within what looked like a stone hearth with strange hooks extending like skeletal arms over the space inside. One of those hooks dangled a dented cooking pot just within reach of the flames, another, a well-blackened kettle. Slowly she turned her head to discover that she was in what looked like a rustic, one-room cabin. The walls looked rough-cut and of utterly unfinished wood, visibly caulked with a dark substance that had to be mud.

The wooden furniture appeared serviceable, nothing fancy or even varnished. A plank table and two three-legged stools sat against one wall, with another wood-framed chair padded with cushions covered with what looked like animal hides gracing the other side. An odd sort of rack sat directly in front of the flames, and Marisol blushed to realize that the blue, red white and black bits of fabric draped over it were her clothes, obviously set out to dry. She moved her hand beneath the covers and bit back a whimper of fear when her fingers encountered nothing but skin.

The figure that now moved from bedside to hearth, the one who had stripped her and yet left her covered chin to toes with a sinfully warm blanket, dominated both the room and her attention. He was very tall, with an athlete's build and long, black hair that hung like a cascade down his back. His clothing, what she could see of it, looked to be made of leather. His movements were smooth and graceful, as if he were dancing rather than merely walking from one side of the room to the other. As he went about his business, he sang softly in a language the likes of which Marisol had never heard before.

As grateful as she was for the warmth, and for the apparent rescue from Crazy Larry, Marisol watched the man move about the room with growing fear. For all she knew, she had managed to elude one maniac only to fall into the clutches of another she knew even less about. Her imagination began to present one terrifying scenario after another, and she began to shiver, knowing that in the state she was in at the moment, she would not be able to escape whatever fate this very tall man intended for her.

Whoever he was, he was very much aware of his surroundings and those in them, because he turned abruptly to look at her, and then his brows knit together in a dark scowl. He muttered something in that very different language and spun away only to turn back moments later with another piece of much thicker fabric, which he carefully draped over the top of the blanket that already covered her. "This should warm you more," he said before turning away to head to the hearth. He crouched down, stirring something in the cooking pot and humming whatever melody he'd been singing before.

The additional covers were warmer, and the sharp pain in her head had retreated to a persistent ache. Marisol soon found herself blinking hard to keep her eyelids from closing, no matter how much she knew she needed to stay alert and aware if she was to have any hope at all of defending herself. Had the man put something in the tea he'd given her – something to make her sleep? A Rufie, perhaps? What did he intend to do with her when she couldn't fight back?

She was almost ready to concede and let herself fall asleep when she felt someone sit down next to her again. Her eyes flew wide open to find the man bending towards her with a mug in one hand. "No! Please…"

"Hush, little one," he soothed in that oddly accented voice of his. "You need to take a few more sips of the tea. It will help with your poor head."

Her eyes welled with tears of genuine terror. "Please don't hurt me," she whispered as his strong arm slipped behind her. "I'll do whatever you want, just please…"

He blinked and gazed deeply into her eyes, and she had to bite her lip to keep from gasping at the pain and the sadness in those intense, grey orbs. The man closed his eyes very briefly, and when he opened them again, there was only compassion and kindness. "You are safe now, this I swear," he told her gently. "I will not harm you. I only wish to make certain you do not have a concussion. Will you take a few more sips of this for me?"

"What is it?"

"A very mild herbal pain reliever, which, when processed and ground into a powder and pressed into small lumps by pharmaceutical corporations, is sometimes called aspirin. Frankly, I find the natural product more effective." He smiled encouragingly. "I added some honey, so it isn't completely disgusting. Please."

The mug touched her lips again, and Marisol closed her eyes and gave in to the inevitable. Now that he mentioned it, she could taste the hint of honey; perhaps he was telling the truth about the rest of it. She truly wasn't ready to trust him at all, but had little choice in the matter. At least she didn't think he'd done anything to her… yet.

"We shall wait a little longer before seeing if your stomach is steady enough to hold something a little more fortifying," he said then and carefully let her recline again, tucking the blankets in securely. "Warm enough?" He seemed satisfied with the tiny nod she gave him and moved away again. He paused by the chairs that held her clothing and felt of them each in turn, then turned them over and shifted the chairs a little closer to the fire before crouching and stirring whatever was in the pot again.

"Who… who are you?" she asked in a tremulous voice, having had to work up the courage to speak.

He cast a glance over his shoulder and then shrugged. "You can call me Mac, I suppose."

In turning his broad back to her, he gave a daunting hint that he wasn't interested in polite conversation. Not sure of what else would be required of her, and desperate to try to stay awake more successfully than she had done before, Marisol turned her head to see what else she could discover about the shelter she'd been brought to.

The bed she lay on was against one rough wall not far from a door, and the stonework that included the hearth comprised the second. Windows that looked to have been salvaged from someplace much more modern were inset into the two holes prepared for them in the third wall, which also held another door to the place. The fourth wall had no windows and was covered in what looked like skins and hides in various stages of being stretched and prepared for use. Her gaze caught on a set of shelves mounted in the corner which held a couple more mugs and possibly other utensils she couldn't see in the dim light of the flames. A wooden crate to the side of the hearth held firewood that had been cut and readied to burn, and a bucket sat on the other side.

And over the hearth, hanging from a peg set into the stone, was a harp that seemed woefully out of place in that rustic setting. Marisol couldn't resist looking back at the man and wondering just what kind of person would have crafted a shelter such as the one they were in, and yet possess something as strange as a harp.

The man – Mac, she remembered him saying his name was – seemed to be in no hurry to do anything to or with her. After another spell of stirring whatever he was cooking, he rose and walked over to the table and seated himself. Evidently there was some task that he had ongoing there as well, for he had some implement in one hand and was working it against something else – was that another skin? And as he did, he once more began to sing very softly to himself.

Marisol let herself relax back into the cushions on the bed, still wary and frightened, but with the sharper edge of her terror fading. As yet, her questionable rescuer had done and said nothing remotely threatening, and it appeared that he was more than comfortable keeping himself company. She might have been naked beneath the blanket, but she was unbound; if necessary, she could get up and run from him, for whatever good that might do her. Moreover, she was warm, warmer than she'd been in well over a week. Her headache had taken yet another shift toward gone, leaving her very weary. Did she dare let herself doze while the man worked, or at least until he awakened her to sip again at that not-quite-disgusting tea?

The next thing she knew, however, the man – Mac – was sitting next to her again, gently jiggling her shoulder to rouse her. "Awaken, child. You should not sleep. Not yet." As clouded as her mind was, she jerked awake violently the moment he'd touched her, and paid for the movement with a wash of nausea. Surprisingly, she saw that the automatic flinch that she had made caused him to hesitate in his movements. "Peace," he soothed softly. "All is well. I merely want you to drink more of the tea and try to eat a few bites of bread this time."

Indeed, that was exactly what he had in his hands: the mug in the one and a piece of lightly toasted bread on a small wooden platter in the other. Still, she stared up at him, terrified of what his real intent might be.

"I am going to help you sit up a bit first," he said then, as he put the platter on the blanket next to her legs. "I promise I shall not harm you."

Once more, his arm slipped behind her to raise her up, only this time, he brought the toast to her lips. "Just a small bite, and chew it well," he directed. Wide-eyed and wary, Marisol did as she was told. The toast was a bit dry, but it was the first thing she'd had to eat that day that hadn't come from a dumpster. "Good." Mac nodded at her. "Now a bit more of the tea." The liquid had cooled considerably, but even tepid, it still felt warm going down.

Finally he let her down again and adjusted the blankets over her. "How do you feel?"

"OK…" What was she supposed to say? What would keep him satisfied and prevent him from doing to her exactly what Crazy Larry had intended. She was alone, and naked, in a cabin probably out in the wilds of the state park north of town, with a man she'd never met before.

He looked over toward the hearth and then back at her. "I fear your clothing will take time to dry, even in front of the fire. You will have to be content with blankets, probably until morning. You were soaked when I found you."

"I… fell… slipped…" Her memory of those last, terrified moments was hazy.

"I saw. I do not believe the man who was following you was very happy that I came upon you when I did." The grey eyes were intense, searching. "I believe you were running from this person?"

Marisol closed her eyes. That was right; she'd been running from Crazy Larry. She nodded and then whimpered when the movement hurt. Her head was better, but it wasn't completely right yet.

"He did not look like a very wholesome individual. I believe you were probably justified in fleeing from him." The smooth-shaven face looked disgusted at the memory of the man who had chased her. It was a disgust she shared. Just the thought of Crazy Larry's hands on her… She shuddered at the thought and held hard to the underside of the blanket.

"What were you doing out in the dark and the rain, little one?" The musical voice called her attention back to the man sitting at her side. He was gazing at her questioningly. "This is the kind of night when all sane people stay indoors, where they are safe and dry. Why were you not at home?"

Why indeed! Marisol closed her eyes and swallowed hard against tears of regret. If she hadn't listened to Trevor, hadn't believed his tall tales of easy money and perpetual sun, she wouldn't be in this fix. She'd be home, with Dad and Mom and Gran and Uncle Pete. She'd be working in the little store the family owned and ran, and maybe even taking an art class at the local community college. The tiny Nebraska town that had been her home all her life might not have been as exciting or novel as California had been in the dreams and fantasies Trevor had fed her, but it would have been _home_.

"No matter. I will see you safely home, once you are recovered and your clothing fit to wear again." Her eyes popped open in surprise at the determined tone of voice.

"But I don't…" she began, and the rest of it died unsaid. She didn't need to burden this man with her sad saga. He probably wasn't interested anyway. She had brought this fate on herself; she would just have to live with her poor decisions. "That's very kind, but you don't have to."

"It is not a bother. You must have family that is worried about you," he said with a slight frown.

Feeling guilty, she avoided his gaze and turned her head to look instead at the chairs that held her drying clothes. "I suppose," she mumbled.

"You do live in town, do you not?" A gentle finger caught at her chin and carefully brought her back to face him again.

"I have no home anymore," Marisol mumbled under her breath, so quietly that she was sure that only she would hear it.

Instead, she was shocked when Mac shook his head firmly, making that shining curtain of black silk wave as if in a wind. "You are far too young to be adrift in this world without belonging somewhere, child!"

"I'm _not_ a child – and you're not a whole lot older than I am!" she blurted defensively at him, and then cringed in fear of his reaction. The time she'd spent with Trevor and his so-called "friends" should have taught her better…

The absolute last thing she expected him to do, however, was to break into a warm chuckle as he rose and once more adjusted the blankets to just below her chin. "Looks can be very deceiving," he tossed at her and headed back to the fire to stir his pot. He crouched there for a short time, and then rose and walked to the table, where he grabbed up one of the stools and brought it over next to the bed and sat down again. "So tell me, why have you no home any longer? And where have you been living if you have no home?"

She stared at him in wonder and consternation. "I don't need anyone to tell me that I was stupid," she hedged defensively.

"You have said nothing yet, so I have no reason to assume anything about the wisdom of your actions," he replied kindly. "It is just that I know this is a special time of year for your people. Most people around here want to be at home, or to return there to be with loved ones…"

"I can't go home." Her voice was flat and emotionless.

"There must be a reason…"

She scowled at him, forgetting her fear of him. "Because I don't have any money, and it's too far away."

Slowly he nodded, accepting her words. "And if you had the coin necessary," he pressed, "you would return home?"

Would they even want to take her back in, after all the hard words and hurt feelings that had accompanied her defying their wishes to go off with Trevor? Never mind that they had been right about him, that he was up to no good and would only bring her grief… No, she was better off not going all the way back there only to have the door slammed in her face. At least in California, being stuck outdoors in bad weather didn't mean being up to her knees in snow, although she'd learned that the absence of snow didn't guarantee that one would be warm at all.

Marisol shrugged. "I don't know. I don't know if they'd even let me…" No. It hurt too much to say the words aloud. Bad enough she had to think them. She gazed up into Mac's face, finding it all too handsome, and decided to change the subject to one of more immediate concern to her. "What are you going to do with me? …to me?"

Those grey eyes widened in surprise and consternation. "_Do_ with you? Whatever gives you the idea that I intend to _do_ anything with you?"

But… she was naked under the blankets… She was getting confused. "Why did you help me, then?"

Dark brows rose abruptly and then lowered into a glower. "Because you needed the help, of course," was the terse rejoinder. "You were unconscious and half-drowning in the middle of a stream with what looked like a wild man bending over you. The look on his face and the things he was doing with his hands told me he meant you no good. And once I had chased him away, I was not about to leave you to drown by inches in a chilled stream until you awoke again by yourself, if you ever did, or to catch lung fever from wearing clothing that was soaked through to the skin to the point it would not keep you warm."

She was unnerved by the display of indignation, as well as the idea that he had helped her for no other reason than that she needed assistance, and she looked away so that she didn't continue to be pinned by the intensity of his gaze. "It's just…" She sighed. "It's just been a long time since anybody's really helped me. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you mad."

He sighed deeply and seemed to calm down a bit. "I am not angry at you, little one, merely very weary of a world which has grown so cold-hearted that a helping hand from a stranger can be so deeply mistrusted." He rose, taking the stool with him and putting it back in its place at the table. "As for your not having a home…" He gestured around the room. "This is not much, but it is warm and dry and safe. Until you have the coin to return to your proper place, wherever that is, you may consider it yours."

Marisol stared at him. "But… You don't even know me. I could be…" She shuddered, thinking of all the things that she had done to survive in the past months that she would never have considered herself capable of, things she was ashamed of. "I could be a thief…"

"Yes, I realize that." Strangely, her protestations didn't seem to alarm him. "And if I find out that your means of acquiring coin runs to the dishonest, it will cost you this place and my protection. I will not allow you to bring trouble to my doorstep."

His protection? That was right – somewhere out there in the dark and the rain was a certifiable nutcase hell-bent on assaulting her. "But Crazy Larry won't stop, and I know he'll come looking for me. You don't want me to cause you any trouble, and Crazy Larry is nothing _but_ trouble." Not after he had taken care of her, saved her from almost certain attack…

His eyebrow were quite expressive when they shot upwards in that manner. "Crazy Larry?"

"That's what they called him at the shelter, and the folks who sleep under the overpass said…"

"Is _that_ where you have been staying?" It seemed impossible, but the eyebrows had risen even higher.

"It wasn't so bad until the weather turned, the underpass, I mean," she answered, cringing at his tone. "At least it was dry. When it got cold, I stayed at the shelter a few nights…"

"But the shelter, if memory serves, is a quite unsavory place; and the underpass is even more so, and cold besides."

"I had no choice." It was the truth, and an unhappy one. "Without a home, nobody would hire me, and without a job, I couldn't pay for a motel room."

Mac gazed at her intently for a long and silent moment, and Marisol tried very hard to ignore the thoughts she was certain were running through his mind. Finally, however, he turned away and crouched down next to the hearth to tend the pot again. "No matter. Provided you behave appropriately, you need go back to neither place again."

He was a strange one, Marisol decided as she relaxed back against the rough cloth beneath her, clinging to the blankets over her as if they could shield her from everything that had gone wrong with her life of late. His moods seemed to blow hot and cold very easily, and he moved with an almost wild feline grace that spoke of great strength. She had felt that strength when he'd lifted her so she could drink his tea, and the thought of it turned against her was frightening.

But he had yet to touch her with anything but respect and gentleness, and he had offered her a place of her own next to a hearth that warmed the inside of this one-room shelter better than the floor furnace had heated the women's dormitory in the shelter. He had fed her bread that hadn't seemed stale or moldy, and the smells beginning to arise from that pot he kept stirring were starting to make her stomach growl softly.

"Thank you," she said softly, not wanting to rile him at all and finally finding a reason to remember her manners.

He rose and walked over to a wooden box that she hadn't noticed before, situated below the shelves, opened a hinged top and drew out something. "Here," he said, turning and tossing that nameless something onto the bed. "It is too large for you, I am sure, but perhaps you will feel a little less vulnerable or threatened if you are wearing more than just a blanket or two."

It was soft leather, softer than any she'd ever seen before, and by the cut it was a shirt. She pulled it beneath her blanket and dragged it over her head. He was right; she swam in it. But as he had suspected, she felt a little more secure. Maybe all of her nightmares weren't on the verge of coming true after all. "Thank you," she said again, a little more confidently this time.

"What is your name?" he asked, turning to close the box again.

"Marisol."

She saw him nod slowly. "A pretty name."


	2. A Safe Place

Chapter 2 - A Safe Place

Marisol didn't ask him what meat was in the stew that he finally served; all that mattered to her was that it was hot and actually as tasty as it smelled. That he served more bread with it was even more appreciated. And there was tea that this time tasted as tea ought, filling in any empty spaces in her tummy with extra warmth. She sat up in bed and somehow managed not to be dizzy as she ate, with the lower half of her body remaining hidden beneath one blanket while the top blanket was drawn around her shoulders and the over-large leather shirt.

Mac had dragged the little stool back next to the bed so that they ate their meal together, and his eyebrows rose as he watched her use the end of the bread to find and soak up every last morsel of the stew from the wooden bowl. "When was the last time you ate?" he asked with the beginnings of a grin.

She shrugged. "A real meal? A few days ago," she replied. "One of the churches had a soup kitchen last Sunday."

"And nothing since then?" He was scowling again, but she was getting used to his not liking some of what she had to tell. In a way, it made her feel warm to see someone genuinely distressed at the things she'd been through to survive. So many people out here seemed to not care at all…

"Nothing hot." She sipped at the remainder of her tea, making it last. "Mostly I get food from the dumpsters behind the Chinese restaurant, and sometimes from the garbage cans near…"

"Nevermind. I do not wish to know more." He held up a very large and oddly scarred hand.

"How did _that_ happen?" she asked, nodding at the hand. "It looks like you were burned."

"I was, a very long time ago," he replied quietly.

"An accident?"

He shook his head and tucked his hand back into his lap. "No."

Marisol heard the unspoken demand to drop the subject and complied. At a loss for anything to say, she sat quietly, cradling her mug of tea and studying the man in front of her. His face was flawless; and if he had been a woman, Marisol would have easily thought him beautiful. His eyes were a clear grey that almost seemed to glow with an inner light at times, with expressive dark brows arching delicately over them. His jaw was square, strong, and his face clean-shaven without even a hint of stubble. His lips were well-defined, his teeth straight and white. And his hair was straight as a pin and hung in an ebon curtain down his back and flowed like water with his every movement.

"What do you see?" he asked in a soft voice, and Marisol blushed at the thought that she'd been caught staring.

"Nothing," she offered first, and then at the look of skepticism, amended, "I was just thinking that you don't look much like a Mac."

"I do not?" His lips quirked. "How so?"

She found herself rising to the amused challenge in his eyes. "Mac is a very ordinary name, and you aren't."

"I am not… what?"

"Ordinary." She let herself smile at him. "Definitely not Mac material."

He let loose a chuckle and then gathered her bowl and his together. "If the truth be told, most people cannot pronounce my name properly. I have found that Mac is a quick and easy substitute."

"What is your name then?" Marisol tipped her head.

"Macalaurë."

"Maca…" She wrinkled her nose.

"…laurë," he finished for her.

"What kind of name is that?"

He blinked at her. "It is mine." He rose and carried the bowls over to the squat bucket that sat on the other side of the hearth.

Marisol opened her mouth to apologize, but was silenced by a roar of wind and snap of what sounded like branches in the storm outside that made her shiver just from the suggestion. Instead, she slipped back down and threw the blanket that had been around her shoulders over the bed again and snuggled down. "Is California always like this at this time of year?"

"Not always, but winter storms from the north are often this way," he replied, settling to his haunches and obviously rinsing the bowls and the carved wooden spoons. "It is a miserable night." The light from the hearth accentuated the planes of his face, throwing his eyes into shadow. He tucked the rinsed bowls up onto the shelf and extinguished the nearby candle with a simple tap of a forefinger. "You should rest now," he directed as he once more checked the drying clothing and then bent to shove another piece of wood into the fire.

"Um…" she began as he tapped yet another candle out, "where are you going to sleep?" All of a sudden, she realized that she was in the one and only bed in the place. If he was going to lie down anywhere, it was probably going to be with _her_, and that didn't sound like a good idea, no matter how good looking he was.

"Here," he replied, pulling the one cushioned chair a little closer to the fire, sat down and stretched out his very long legs. "Good night, little one."

She breathed out a long sigh of relief. At least at the moment, it would seem her luck had brought her into the keeping of an honorable man, rather than one who would rather use her and throw her aside. He had certainly had ample opportunity to live up to her worst fears by now. She bit back a retort at being called "little one" all the time. If all it would cost her to have a roof over her head, hot food in her stomach, and perhaps even a protector against the likes of Crazy Larry for a while was to be called "little one," she could swallow her pride.

"Good night, Macalaurë." She knew she hadn't said his name properly.

He noticed, but his chuckle told her he didn't mind much. "Mac is easier to say," he told her again.

"I like the sound of Macalaurë," she told him with a yawn. "I don't know why, but it suits you."

"Then I shall take the time to teach you to say it properly in the morning," he murmured back. "Sleep well, Marisol."

oOoOo

What _was_ he doing?

For the better part of the last three millennia, he had steered clear of all Mortals and their fleeting woes and travails as much as possible. After all those centuries of deliberate indifference to the comings and goings of men and women of all classes and circumstances, what in the name of all the Powers in Arda had possessed him to break with that_ now_?

A single glance at the so very young face, relaxed into sleep on his pillow, was all the answer he needed. Were she not Mortal, she would have been a lovely elleth, with long, dark hair swirling about her face like a soft cloud. Her straight nose, delicate lips like a rosebud poised to bloom, and creamy skin held few hints of the coarse mortality that would all too soon take the roses from her cheeks and smoothness of her skin. With a jolt, he realized that Carnistir's daughter had looked much like this little one…

For the first time in centuries, he allowed himself to remember Eirien and her smile, her quick and sparkling laugh, her ability to turn her dour father's glares into indulgent smiles. That enchanting laugh and quick wit had turned his head so completely that had she not been so closely related, he would have spoken to her father for permission to court her. As it was, he had enjoyed being a favorite uncle instead and made every possible excuse to come to visit. Eirien was one of the very few faces who inhabited his memories that both cheered him and made his grief more acute.

Had she perished in the tumult that had torn her home apart and sunk it beneath the waves, or had she fled east in time only to take ship when the ban was lifted? Or had the deaths of her parents – Carnistir's slaughter in Doriath and then the fading of her mother – made her fade as well; and if so, had she been released from Mandos' Halls yet? He'd been so busy following Maitimo in those bitter, latter days, and raising the children whom his actions had orphaned, that he'd lost track of her; and now…

Had she found someone in the Ages since last he'd seen her, someone who could fill her heart as it so deserved to be filled? Did they treat her well, or did they still see her as nothing but the child of a Kinslayer, touched by and tainted past all redemption by an Oath that should never have been made?

And, as ever happened whenever he made the mistake of allowing his mind to retrace its way back to those glorious and cursed days and those who had touched his heart, the grief and remorse was crippling. Tears began to spill down his face, and he had to bite the inside of cheeks to keep his sobs from becoming audible and disturbing the rest of the Mortal child he'd given refuge to.

He knew better than this. Keeping his attention merely on the acts that kept him alive and separate from those who had so filled the world on this side of the Sundering Sea had become a shield that he could depend on. Carefully refraining from remembering his life among his own people, among his own family, was something that he knew better than to abandon with such ease. It allowed him to serve this eternity in exile – the only proper punishment for the obscenities in which he had been an active and willing participant – without losing his sanity. He moved among these Mortals, worked with them when the need arose, and yet kept himself completely separate from them.

Until now, evidently.

He settled his arms across his chest, as if they would guard his heart better than mithril and steel armor had, and examined exactly what had moved him to throw away centuries worth of established behavior. This child was _not_ Eirien; he _knew_ this. But as much as he tried, he simply couldn't harden his heart to the point that he regretted his actions. He couldn't have just left her to the tender mercies of that lunatic he'd chased away. What had she called him? Crazy Larry?

The man would have raped her while she lay in the stream, unconscious. He'd known Mortals to do that or worse. He'd walked away often enough, knowing that such things were likely to happen and unwilling to involve himself with Mortals enough to interfere with their fates. But no, this time he couldn't have just left her there, to suffer that kind of abuse; he simply wasn't that impervious to the sufferings of the Second-born when they wore the face of one he cared for.

And now, not only had he stepped in and altered her future, but he'd offered her the sanctuary of his personal retreat as well. He'd thrown out hundreds of years of managing to live alone quite nicely, thank you, in a misplaced fit of social conscience because a Mortal child reminded him of another child of his own people from long ago. He glowered at himself, certain that his long exile was starting to rob him of his sanity at last.

It would be very difficult, dwelling as close to each other as would be necessary in a one-room cabin, to avoid her discovering exactly what – and who – he was. He was running an incredible risk here.

Still…

He twisted and gazed over his shoulder at the sleeping girl in his bed and his gaze softened again; his heart thumped hard with yearning. Would it be so bad to allow himself to have a little company after all this time? After all, it would only be for the few days it would take until he had managed to figure out some way to get her back to her people, wherever they might be. If he were cautious, it might work. A brief respite from the desperate loneliness wouldn't be out of line, would it?

He tucked his chin and deliberately closed his eyes. The morning would come soon enough; and something told him that he wouldn't be able to just laze about whenever he felt like it anymore. He had a guest, and an injured one at that. He was responsible for the wellbeing of someone again, for the first time in longer than he wanted to think about.

It felt… good.

oOoOo

A loud snapping and a crash brought Marisol up out of a sound sleep with a cry of fright and dismay. She hadn't intended on sleeping so deeply that she lost all awareness of her surroundings and of the strangers she was surrounded by, but the hot meal and the warm, comfortable bed had proven hard to resist. "Peace," came out of the darkness at her, in a voice low and musical. "The storm is tearing at the branches of the trees that surround us, and one bounced off our roof on its way to the ground. We are safe, however, and our cabin secure."

It took a very long and terrifying moment for her sleep-clouded mind to process the voice, as well as the fact that she was warm and dry and actually quite comfortable. Finally she remembered where she was and whom she was with. "Mac?" she squeaked.

"Aye." There was the sound of movement, and then a flare of sparks from the hearth as another log was added to the bed of coals. "Go back to sleep, little one. All is well."

As the coals ignited the latest log, and the darkness retreated just a little, Marisol could make out the silhouette of a tall, long-haired person still seated in the chair he'd placed before the fire, the rack of drying clothes a misshapen blob next to him. Another horrific gust of wind rustled the trees outside and made her duck back down into her covers. "You're sure?"

"This cabin has weathered many such storms. Sleep." The long legs stretched out toward the fire again.

"Are you sure you're comfortable there?"

She saw him glance over his shoulder and heard him chuckle. "I have slept in many places far less comfortable. Besides, I believe your sense of security right now comes from my keeping my distance in the dark, does it not?"

Was she that easy to understand? "I suppose. But…"

"But nothing, little one. I need not recline to rest, nor do you need to sacrifice your sense of security for my comfort. Go back to sleep; it is hours before dawn yet."

He really _was_ a strange one! "I don't understand," she mumbled to herself as she pulled the blankets close up under her chin. Trevor wouldn't have hesitated to climb into bed with her, and most of the men she'd met since finding herself stranded and abandoned in this small, coastal area would have been more than willing to take advantage of even the slightest hint of willingness. But Mac – Macalaurë – wasn't interested?

She blinked suddenly. Of course! Hadn't Trevor told her that often times the best looking guys in California were gay? "You're gay?" she asked softly.

"In a storm like this, it is fairly difficult to be very merry," he rumbled back at her.

Was he teasing her? "I meant, you like guys then? Is that why?"

"I like many people," he replied slowly, his tone starting to sound confused. "Why what?"

"I mean… You haven't tried to..." Oh! Would mentioning what she feared give him ideas he hadn't been entertaining before then? "Nevermind."

"Is _that_ what you have been expecting me to do?" Marisol saw those long legs pulled back in, and then he was standing. "The others you have been with lately would no doubt have attempted it long since, especially considering your state of undress beneath those blankets." He walked toward her slowly and then crouched down next to the bed. "Have you been waiting for me to take you by force when you would not give in to me freely?"

Terrified, for he looked so much more threatening and huge in the darkness, when all she could see was his shape, Marisol closed her eyes and whimpered. She should have kept her mouth shut! Her horror trebled when she felt a very gentle touch at the side of her face, as if a single finger were tracing the line of her jaw.

"You are safe, child, for no matter what you might otherwise believe of me, I am no rapist. And no, to answer your question, I do not prefer males in my bed; frankly, it has been a very long time since I have even thought of such things." She held very still, for his huge hand had begun tracing back the hair from her face. "You remind me very much of others I have known: two little ones long ago who had seen far too much for their tender years who came into my care for a time just as accidentally, and a young woman whom I cared for very much. I could never harm you, anymore than I could any of them."

The large hand stroked her head one more time, and then Marisol heard him rising from his crouch again. "Sleep. You are safe, and warm, and dry; and I will allow none to threaten your slumber this night." She opened her eyes to see that his bulk had moved away from her again, headed back to the chair that sat before the hearth. He stretched an arm upwards and lifted down the harp that she knew hung there before finding his seat. His fingers touched the strings very softly, and suddenly the tiny cabin was filled with harmony and melodies that soothed in ways that nothing else could have.

Almost giddy with relief and the sudden release of her terrors, Marisol relaxed back into her pillow as Mac began to hum with his playing, a gentle and sad melody she had never heard before. She didn't even notice when her eyes slipped closed and she surrendered to the peace of the music.

oOoOo

The moment he knew from the depth and regularity of her breathing that she had returned to her slumber, his fingers stilled on the strings of his harp and his humming fell away.

She had been afraid of him, afraid that he was preparing to do to her as that lunatic – that 'Crazy Larry' – had intended. The terror that had been in her eyes when he had come close after hearing what she had been expecting and dreading had been like a kick in the stomach. Then again, considering the little pieces of her story that he'd managed to glean to this point – not to mention the circumstances under which she had come into his care to begin with – he supposed he shouldn't be surprised. He'd heard enough of the dangers of being a runaway or homeless from the discarded newspapers or the occasional radio news broadcast to know some of what she'd faced. And when she had awakened for the first time, she had been naked beneath the covers; no matter the reason, it was no wonder she hadn't trusted him at first, or wondered about his intentions.

What was worse now, however, what made him shudder to himself in both disgust and horror, was that the idea that slipping into the bed with her was still so very tempting. It had been _so_ long since he'd even wanted to be close to another person in that way, and she looked so much like Eirien without the family ties that stood in the way! The chance to hold even a diminished surrogate to his heart, to try to soothe her fears, had been almost more than he could resist.

But she _wasn't_ Eirien, he reminded himself sternly. Her name was Marisol – a pretty name in its own right, as he had told her – and she was Mortal. Her life would be like a bright moment in a very long day to him, and too soon she would begin to age, to sag, to tire, to wither. And, Mortal or not, she deserved better than him; and he didn't deserve her at all.

He sighed and rose to put the harp back into its place. It was late, and just having to be sociable was tiring. He needed his sleep; hopefully the storm would die down enough not to keep dropping branches on the cabin and waking him up and frightening Eir… Marisol.

The child's name was Marisol.

oOoOo

Marisol slowly awoke to the sounds of stirring, and then watched with wide eyes as Mac – Macalaurë, she reminded herself – pawed through her clothing on the rack, his face in the dim light showing little of his mood. Whatever else, he must have found them dry, for he gathered them over an arm and brought them to the foot of the bed. When he saw her awake, however, his face split into a wide grin. "Good morning, Miss Big Eyes. I thought you would appreciate having your own clothing to wear again when you awoke."

Marisol pushed herself up onto an elbow. "Is it still raining?"

"Not as hard as it did in the night, but it is still very wet out." He turned away. "I believe you will be warmer in your own clothing as well, so you will not have to continue to huddle beneath blankets."

Her nose wrinkled slightly at the stiffness of the fire-dried fabric. Still, she couldn't complain much, because they were probably cleaner now than before she had fallen into the stream. She checked the back of the trousers and was surprised to see no dirt or grass stains. "I thought these would be filthy," she said softly, running a thoughtful hand across the fabric.

"They were, and your jacket too," Mac said with a shrug. "I rinsed the worst of it away from both before I hung them up to dry."

He said it so very nonchalantly, but Marisol had to swallow back a huge lump in her throat. "You didn't have to," she whispered. Not even Trevor had cared for her enough to actually _do_ anything for her that hadn't ultimately been to his own benefit.

"It was no problem," he answered, parking himself in the chair before the fire after making certain he was turned away from the bed. "I was certain, however, that you would prefer not to have to put on dirty clothes."

"Thank you!" Marisol had drawn her clothes beneath her blankets and thrown the covers over her head so that she could dress in private. Suddenly, stiffer fabric was not an issue. The panties and bra still felt as if they had just come from in front of the fire, and she ran her fingers over the soft leather of the shirt after she'd pulled it off. "And thank you for loaning me your shirt."

"It was the least I could do." She heard more stirring from beyond her tented blanket. "I am going out to survey the damage to the roof from the storm. I have left tea and some bread on the table for you when you are ready to face the world. I shall return shortly."

She had barely opened her mouth to reply when she heard the door open to admit sounds of dripping rain and then close again. She drew back the top of the blanket to see that she had indeed been left alone in the cabin. She finished pulling her tank top over her bra, and then the turtleneck sweater over that before twisting her legs off the bed to put on the heavy denim. The packed dirt floor of the cabin was cold, and she pulled on her stockings and wriggled her toes in glee at the return of warmth to her feet.

Finally feeling ready to face the morning, she rose and tried hard to pull the covers of the bed back together properly. The leather shirt she folded carefully and put at the foot of the bed, just where Macalaurë had left her clothing, and moved to the table to investigate the fare that had been provided for her. She sank down onto one of the stools as she sipped at her tea and closed her eyes in rapture. She had never once thought that having something hot and bracing to drink first thing in the morning was a luxury, but after months of waking up and staying hungry, the tea and bread – along with a tiny helping of honey from a small, squat pot in the middle of the table – felt like a feast. And best of all, it didn't have that leftover garbage taste to it.

The door burst open, and a cloaked and hooded and dripping Macalaurë pushed in with his arms full. "Can you close the door for me, little one?" Marisol hurried over to shut out the chilled wind that had whistled in behind him, noting that the drizzle might be light, but it was also steady. She turned just in time to watch him unburden himself of an armful of wood, all cut to a length that would fit in the hearth, into the wooden box.

"Our roof took a direct hit, and I may have to replace some of the tar paper during the next dry period," he said, untying the straps at his throat that held the long garment and then moving to hang it on the back of the door. "But I believe we were lucky, and shouldn't have too many leaks in the meanwhile." He eyed her, the few crumbs on the wooden plate where the bread had been, and nodded. "Feel better with something in your stomach?"

"Thank you for breakfast." Marisol returned to her stool and the half-finished mug of tea. "I don't know how I'm ever going to thank you for…"

"Yes, well, that _is_ a discussion that needs to happen, now, does it not?" Macalaurë retrieved a mug from where it had been hidden near one leg of the cushioned chair that had been his bed the night before, and moved to pull another squat piece of pottery from the very top of the shelf on the wall. "All that we settled between us last night was that you are welcome to stay here for as long as you have need. However, as you can see, I was not prepared for a guest." He put a pinch of dry leaf in the bottom of his mug and used a length of blackened cloth to shield his hand while pouring steaming water from the kettle that had been hanging over the fire.

"I don't mind sleeping on the floor in front of the fi…"

"No. That will not do." Macalaurë's head shook firmly. "Depending on how long it takes to earn you the coin to take you back to your people, either I shall continue to rest in that…" He gestured at the chair. "…or I shall build another bed. Both are simple enough solutions." He walked back to the table and dropped with easy grace onto the other stool. "So the question that needs an answer is how much coin will be needed."

Marisol busied herself with studying the mug in front of her. "I don't know," she admitted at last. "Trevor bought the tickets…"

"This Trevor, he is a relative?"

She shook her head.

"Your betrothed?"

"My what?"

Macalaurë sighed. "You were to wed him?"

"No. He was a guy that I met back home and thought I'd fallen in love with." Her fingers toyed with the rim of her mug. "He told me that with a voice like mine, it would be easy to get a record contract, and talked me into coming with him to California. But once we got here…" She fell silent.

He was a patient listener, she could tell, and she had his interest. "Once you got here…" he prompted when the silence grew.

"Things didn't work out the way he'd planned," she finished lamely. She had no intention of telling him how Trevor had even promised her that if she slept with first this one and then that, they would let her use the recording studio for that all-important demo – only for this reason or that, the recording dates never happened, but Trevor had money again for a while. Or that she'd tried to follow him when he up and left her in a shabby hotel room in San Francisco, only to run out of money when she hit this place. "By then, I was here, and he was gone, and so was the money. No singing contract, no anything. I was stuck."

She glanced up and saw that his grey eyes were watching her intently. "I know I was stupid. I should never have listened to him – don't you think I haven't wished a million times that I'd just been content…"

"I have heard similar tales," he said, finally releasing her from his gaze and taking a long sip of his tea. "Not all of them have happy endings. I believe, before I found you in the stream last night, you were well on your way to one of those unhappy endings yourself."

She remembered running from Crazy Larry, nodded and shuddered, swiping at her face to knock away the tears that threatened. "I've tried to get work, I really have…"

"It is difficult to get work if you have no permanent place of residence." He nodded at her. "I know, or rather, I have heard such was the case." He leaned on the table with both elbows, cradling his mug in his large hands, and thought for a moment. "I know a few of the business owners in the area. How willing are you to work?"

Marisol's head came up immediately. "I would do _any_thing…"

"No matter what?" Macalaurë interrupted sharply.

She met his gaze. "I don't want to be homeless forever. I have to start somewhere."

"I will ask you again what I asked you last night: if you had the coin, would you want to go back to your people?"

"_Want_ to go home? Yes," she answered without hesitation. "But as I told you last night, I don't know how welcome I would be. And right now, it is snowing very hard back there, Macalaurë. If I'm not welcome, I'll freeze."

"That reminds me that I must teach you how to say my name properly today sometime," he said with a grimace. "As for the other, perhaps it would be a good idea for you to make an effort to contact your people and see if a welcome would be forthcoming before you travel. I can certainly provide the loan of ample coin for a postage stamp, and any answer can be delivered to you in care of General Delivery. But while you await that answer, if you are sincere in wishing a job, you will come with me into town once it stops raining. I have done favors for several there which might provide openings for one willing to do _any_thing, as you said."

"I don't want to end up out there again." Marisol's hand gestured toward the door. "And I don't like having to beg for money or dig through garbage for food anymore."

His face creased in an expression of disgust. "I do not blame you. Then we will head to town when the rain stops, and see what we can find."

"I still don't know how I'm ever going to thank you," she said, stubbornly returning to an earlier thought. "You're the first person in a long time to just give me a decent break."

Mac put out a hand as if to touch her, then withdrew it and rose quickly, taking her mug with him. "Everyone should get at least one chance to go home, to make amends," he muttered softly and then raised his voice. "More tea?"


	3. Things That Cannot Be

Chapter 3 - Things That Cannot Be

It had been a long time since he had been a witness to a person starting to bloom. It was no less satisfying and uplifting now, watching one of the Second-born rediscover her innate worth and sense of being. Ages ago, he'd felt much the same after raising twin peredhil boys and watching _them_ find their way as individuals as well as two halves of a whole. Even from a distance, watching Elros depart to become one of the Second-born's greatest leaders and then watching Elrond lead his people with compassion and deep wisdom had been both a comfort and evidence that there had been _some_thing he'd done right.

Marisol was determined not to end up back on the streets, or under the freeway overpass or a rusted bridge, again. The day after the storm ended, he had spoken to one of the owners of a small motel on the very beach itself, and they had given the child a job cleaning rooms as a way of paying for his assistance with new leaks in the roofs of the outlying buildings. Marisol had taken to the task with a vengeance, and the owner had privately told him at the end of the first week that the rooms had never been as clean as they were now.

There had only been one small hitch in their relationship, and it was one that he had seen coming clearly and dreaded, but had been unable to avoid. It happened during their second week together, when yet another storm broke unexpectedly over them as he escorted Marisol back to their cabin and drenched the both of them to the skin before he could throw the hood of his cloak over his head. Once safely within their shelter, the two of them had stood in front of a newly-laid fire with hands outstretched to gather in the warm. Marisol had glanced up at him in preparation to say something, and her eyes had gone wide and startled.

It had been inevitable, living in such close quarters with one of her kind. Some day, his long hair would be drenched and clinging tightly to his head, and his ears would become quite visible. He'd kept them hidden from those around him for as long as he'd been in this land, but he'd been alone all that time. "Marisol…"

It was obvious she was fighting flinching away from him and backing away. "Wh…what _are_ you?"

Oh! The temptation to just spill his guts for a change was great, but he knew that this was _not_ the time for such things. He was still getting used to her company, and she still needed the support and protection that he provided her. She would have to be brought into his secret very carefully, to be taught that he had become no more dangerous to her in the last few moments than he'd been for over a week, and to be shown that their differences were of no consequence to her. And it would need to start _now_.

"I am the same as I was when I carried you here and sheltered you from Crazy Larry and that bad storm the first time," he replied casually, deliberately trying to take the urgency away from the situation through tone of voice and lack of tension. "Have I changed in any way – really? Have I done anything differently to make you doubt me now?"

Despite her fears, this Mortal child had resilience to her, a strength of personality that many he'd met over the long, long centuries didn't have. He watched her eyes flick back and forth from peering deeply into his to contemplating the shape of his ears, and he knew she was thinking about what he said.

"No," she answered finally, "but… your ears…"

"Have ever been this way. You just have not seen them before."

"But…"

He pressed on. "Do I not still have only two hands, two feet, two eyes? Do I not speak to you in a language you understand?"

"You sing in one that I've never heard before," she offered almost defensively.

He smiled at her. Such a brave child! "Yes, that is the language of my youth, but does it make me someone to be feared?"

Marisol blinked, and again he could see the thoughts roiling. "No. Of course not. It's just…"

"It is just that my ears look differently from yours, yes?" He waited patiently for the nod he knew would come. "Does the shape of my ears make a difference in the kind of person I am, in my actions toward you or another?" This time, he waited for the slow shake of her head. "Am I more fearsome now?"

"Are you human?" was the question that answered his.

He slung his cloak from his shoulders and moved back to the door to hang it on the peg so it wouldn't drip water in the middle of the room. "In a manner of speaking, I am," he responded, following up by moving to Marisol's side and gesturing for her to unzip her jacket and hand it to him. "A long time ago, my people shared this land with yours. I am the last to remain, however."

Marisol had followed his every slightest move with her eyes. "Are you an alien then? Like on TV or in the movies?"

"No, little one. At the very beginning, my people were here before yours."

Ah! He could see the flicker of disbelief in her gaze. Instead, she declared, "I bet you had surgery on your ears."

"Surgery?" He threw his head back and laughed long and hard. "No, little one. If I were going to have surgery, do you not think it would be best if I made it so that I no longer looked quite so different from you?"

"I don't know. It's a good way to make folks think twice about letting you near," she offered reluctantly.

She had a point. "Very true. But the fact is I have not had surgery of any kind. You may check for yourself, if you do not believe me." He bent down to put his head closer to her eye level. "If you wish…"

After a sharp glance at his face, Marisol did indeed step closer and with very tentative fingers trace the hair away from his head so as to see his ears more closely. He closed his eyes at the gentle touch, reminding himself that she belonged to her own people, that she had a home she needed to reclaim. There would never be one to hold him, to stroke his ears, to…

He straightened quickly, before he could finish the thought. "Any scars you can see?"

"No…" She blushed and stepped away from him. "I'm sorry I accused you of…"

He shook his head at her; her disbelief and wariness were quite understandable, especially in this day and Age. "Think nothing of it. The most important thing, at the moment, is that you know that I am still the same Mac who makes rabbit stew, and cuts the wood for the fire." He leveled an assessing gaze on her. "Am I still one to be feared?"

"No." The element of certainty was back, and it was a relief. "Who were your people, then?" she asked shyly.

My people were once known as "Quendi." That means "Singers" in my language."

"Is that the same language that your name is in?"

"It is." He walked over to the clothing press and pulled out two fluffy towels and handed one over.

"Say something in your language, please?"

When he pulled the towel from his head, he found Marisol standing, waiting, her eyes bright and expectant. She was neither fearful nor ridiculing; she was genuinely curious.

"Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo."

"Oooo!" Marisol vigorously applied the towel she held to her own head. "That's pretty! What does it mean?"

"'The stars shine upon our meeting,'" he supplied quietly.

"Elen… sil…"

His face smoothed into a smile. "Get dry, little one. I shall teach you how to say it properly while we prepare our meal."

oOoOo

Life with Macalaurë was unlike any existence Marisol had experienced before. As the days turned into weeks, and they slowly got to know each other better, she could tell that he had relaxed some kind of inner guard. The private man behind defenses he threw up to others was funny, kind, observant, and quite passionate about a number of things. He was a dedicated story-teller, and insisted on hearing her story from beginning to end, without allowing her to omit the darker, less complimentary parts. Oddly, he didn't judge her or lecture her on what she should or shouldn't have done.

Instead, in return he would tell her tales that sounded as if they came out of a book of fairytales: of princes and great lords, of sweeping battles, of desperation in the face of implacable evil, of small kindnesses even in the worst of situations and stunning betrayals. As entertaining as his stories were, she couldn't help her skepticism when, after his first story, he claimed to have actually _lived_ these tales himself.

"You're far too young to have done all these things," she reminded him, working the small rabbit-skin with the flat rock as he had taught her. "This is the twenty-first century, after all, Macalaurë; we don't run around with swords and spears and shields and…"

"And yet, I possess such," he told her in a calm voice that betrayed him practicing patience with her. "Do you wish to see them?"

She nodded vigorously. "Sure!" No doubt, she would now be allowed to examine stuff that had "Made In China" marked somewhere.

Macalaurë rose and went to a lower chest, nearly hidden against the wall under all of the drying skin frames. Whatever he was seeking was well wrapped, for it took him time to pull it out, and when he did…

"O wow!" Marisol stared. The sword he had unearthed shone in the firelight as if made of the finest silver. Even if it were a replica, it was an expensive item.

She stared as he carried it over to her and carefully buried the point into the wood of the floor before offering the hilt to her. "Be careful; it is very sharp and probably quite heavy for you."

_That _was a masterpiece of understatement! There was no way she could even begin to lift the thing herself, and a careful touch to the edge of the blade revealed that it was as sharp as any razor she had ever seen. What was more, now that she was close enough, she could see that the entire length of the blade had been etched with graceful symbols she'd never seen before. "What does it say?"

"It is an invocation to the Powers," he answered, for some reason blushing deeply. "It was for my protection while fighting. My father crafted this for me, and the dagger as well." He pulled the dagger that he always wore at his hip to show her, and Marisol could see, after Macalaurë untied the leather wrapping that hid the dagger's hilt, that the two were matched set. The same configuration of jewels decorated both, and a similar etching stretched the length of the dagger blade, just as it did the sword.

"Oh wow…" She searched for something to say, now that he'd made her question her doubts with his treasure. Her eyes widened when he retrieved the sword from her keeping, turned away from her and swung it in a tight circle, making it sing as it cut the air. There was a grace and skill and obvious familiarity with the way the thing was handled that couldn't be faked, and the hairs on Marisol's neck rose at the thought that maybe – just _maybe_ – Macalaurë hadn't been just spinning a yarn for her after all. "If you used this, how old does it make you? I mean, we haven't used swords for centuries, and you look…"

"Too young, yes, I remember your saying that more than once." Macalaurë crouched and carefully packed the magnificent weapon back in its wrapping and closed the lid of the chest. "Do _you_ remember my telling you that looks could be very deceiving?" When she nodded, remembering that odd statement from her very first night in the cabin, he nodded back. "It will be hard for you to believe, but my people do not age the way yours does. I am… quite old, by your measure."

"How old?" she pressed. Something told her his answer would stretch her ability to believe even further than his stories had.

"Older than I want to think about," was his hedging response. "It does not matter. I will be here when you are long gone, and your children's children's children as well."

"But…" Marisol thought for a moment, the concept of what he was telling her a difficult one to get around, "if you are the last of your people here, why don't you go to where the others are. Or…" Her eyes opened wide and upset. "Are they dead?"

Macalaurë shook his head, his expression quite sad. "No, they are not dead. But I am forbidden to return to them."

"Why?" What could he have done that was so bad? Even though he told tales that defied belief, he was no monster, no criminal…

"I have done things," he replied very slowly, almost reluctantly, "terrible things, things that are unforgivable by my people's standards. My punishment is exile."

Her brows rose and her hands stilled at their task once more. "Here? Exile here?"

She watching him take a very deep breath and stow away his sadness and something else that she couldn't quite identify. "Yes. Now, how comes that skin you've been worrying for the last three evenings?"

Marisol handed over her latest attempt to try her hand at making a skin ready for working, and yet she wasn't ready to drop the subject. She knew that he didn't like to be touched much, but she still put her hand on his as he took the skin from her. "I don't care what you did. You're a good person, and making you live in exile isn't fair."

When Macalaurë looked up at her, that strange glow that could sometimes ignite in the back of his eyes was bright and strong. "I appreciate your judgment of me, little one, even though I know better. Let us leave aside the talk of exiles and immortalities now and talk about what you would like to make with this skin. A wallet, perhaps?"

"Will you show me more on the harp later too?"

His smile widened, and he nodded. "I need to see how much you remember of the song as well. Music after the meal, then."

Marisol watched him examine her work with a fond eye. Her self-appointed guardian and mentor was such a person of mystery and contradictions, but he ever had time to give her any knowledge that she asked for. She liked him, and liked him more and more as time went on – even if his stories were hard to believe were reality.

Why couldn't Trevor have been more like Macalaurë?

oOoOo

Winter became Spring, and the weather slowly warmed. He escorted Marisol into town every morning that she worked for the Brite Spot motel, and slowly had become known as someone who was a good fix-it man. The change was as gradual as the weather, but the businessmen in the area weren't looking askance at the length of his hair, or the fact that he wore homemade leather trousers and tunics anymore. Instead, it seemed as if they'd learned to appreciate the quality of his work. As time passed, he was met on the street with smiles as often as not now, no longer considered a stranger but one of "them."

Life had an interesting spice to it now, with Marisol in the cabin with him. He would never know, from one evening to the next, what kinds of questions her fertile mind would pose to him, what kind of commentary would emerge regarding whatever story was told after the meal and before retiring. The child was bright, and he reveled in being given the chance to be a teacher once more. She was beginning to make music rather than merely noise on the lap harp, her skins were soft and easily worked into whatever she wanted or needed, and both her speaking and singing voices were pleasant songs that flavored his day.

Crazy Larry had tried twice to accost her, and both times had been chased away. The last time, however, he had been chased into the arms of the local gendarmerie, and now was contained in a locked room in the local mental health facility. Marisol visibly relaxed once all chance of running into that lunatic was removed, and her wit and humor began to shine everywhere, rather than only when safe in the cabin. Never was there an evening that he wasn't grateful this child of Mortals had fallen into his care.

Why had he never thought to simply _be_ amongst the Second-born, rather than hold himself aloof as much as possible? Nobody knew or cared about his history, or would believe him if he chose to tell it to them. And without the burden of guilt and remorse from the censure of others, he was discovering that these modern Mortals only cared about who he was _now_ and appreciated the tasks he did and his skill at doing them. He even had offers for company at the midday meals from those he worked with or for, and companionable conversations with people willing to accept him for who he was now became a much more regular facet of his dealings.

Perhaps it was the nature of the inhabitants of this little resort town on the edge of the Pacific Ocean to be more open and giving to one of their own. Perhaps it was because they all watched him watch over Marisol and saw that he was behaving in a decent, ethical manner towards her. Perhaps it was because bartering for whatever skills he had at repairing their properties or equipment was more affordable and therefore more acceptable when money was tight. Whatever it was, it was a strange and yet comforting feeling to know himself welcome by the townspeople rather than estranged from them. He may not have been a part of them, but he no longer felt the need to distance himself as quickly and often as possible.

But time was marching on, and the little pot on one of the upper shelves that had been set aside to hold the coin Marisol would need to purchase her bus ticket home slowly began to fill. He had cajoled and coerced and finally convinced her to write to her parents to see whether or not she'd be welcomed home again, and then given her the money for the stamp to post the letter. A week and a half later, she had at first stared dumbstruck at the thick envelope she had received in response; and when the tears began to fall to know that they still loved and wanted her with them, she had shyly asked for a hug and then sobbed into his shoulder.

How carefully he had held her that evening, marveling all the while at how frail she was, and yet how strong! The chance to hold her close and know his attentions welcome was a gift – a gift from the Powers that he had once thought had forgotten him utterly. They had placed this precious child of the After-comers in his care, and by accepting her into his life, he had opened his world to a wealth of simple pleasures that had been denied him…

No. Those simple pleasures were things he had denied _himself_. The Powers had nothing to do with any of that, just as they had nothing to do with the fact that he had exiled _himself_ rather than go home to face them. So much of his anger and resentment at the Ages he'd spent on these shores, cut off from all that he held dear, had fallen away in that tender moment of comfort that was more mutual than he'd ever considered possible. He had begun humming his comfort to her then, holding her close to him and knowing the very nature of that moment to be fleeting, humming a refrain of an old song of joy and peace that he hadn't thought of since before the Arnoediad.

And now, as he stood at the counter pricing a bus ticket to Lincoln, Nebraska and beyond, he wasn't certain he was glad that his time with Marisol was coming to an end.

oOoOo

It seemed like a dream: the bus ticket was purchased and tucked into the soft leather wallet that Macalaurë had made for her months ago. Tomorrow, with everything she owned in the world tucked into another gift from him – a backpack that had a burned pattern on the flap that he told her was her name written in _his_ language – she would climb on board one of those long busses for the three-day trip back to Nebraska.

She was the last one through the cabin door, so it was her responsibility that night to set the latch for the evening so that no one could disturb their slumber. As she pressed the wooden peg through the hole one last time, she sighed. This rustic existence had become very dear to her, and she wasn't entirely delighted to be leaving it behind.

Certainly, living with a man who was _not_ her lover had been an interesting set of challenges. She had learned that she had but to ask him, and he would turn his back on her to give her whatever privacy she felt she needed. After the first few times of watching like a hawk, she relaxed in the knowledge that he really _wasn't_ taking the opportunity to peek at her like any other guy would have. And, in return, she had made sure that when he asked, she would turn _her_ back immediately and keep it turned, despite the curiosity that grew steadily in her.

And now, her time with him was nearly finished.

The evening had been spent in pleasant company, dining with her former employer and his wife at a local restaurant. Eating restaurant fare as it was intended, after getting very used to the limited menu in Macalaurë's cabin, was a shock. She had been almost sleepy for the entire walk back, and fumbled her way through her few evening tasks before changing into the soft leather tunic that she continued to wear for her sleeping garment.

It had not occurred to her how much she would miss her old boss, with his slightly grandfatherly treatment and unfailing words of encouragement. But she was well aware that she would most definitely miss Macalaurë most of all.

She watched from the bedside as he pulled off his boots and set them to the side of the hearth and then bent to bank the fire for the night. As she always did, she then found herself wondering about his being comfortable. For her entire residency in his home, Macalaurë had rested every night in that cushioned chair by the hearth without a single complaint or even a mention that he'd like to stretch out in his own bed once in a while. And every night, Marisol had felt guilty at displacing him so.

But this night, her guilt had an urgency to it: it was her _last _night. She had become very fond of her rescuer, but had never once tried to let him know exactly how she felt about him. She knew that he returned the sentiment, to one degree or other, because she would sometimes catch him watching her with his eyes glowing in that way he got when his emotions were close to the surface. And time was growing very short, if she were going to say or do anything.

She had thought long and hard about this for days. He had demanded nothing of her, never once tried to touch her or do anything else to her, even though she would have been glad to cooperate in these past few weeks had he asked. Trevor wouldn't even have asked, he would have… No. Macalaurë was a gentleman – a saint compared to the weasel who had tricked her into coming to California. And once, just once, it would be nice to give herself to a man freely, in a way she knew men enjoyed. It was the only thing she could think of to give him to express her gratitude for all that he'd done for her.

"Mac?"

He glanced over his shoulder at her and then back at the task at hand. "Go to sleep, little one. Tomorrow is a big day for you." He quickly finished and then straightened to reach up for the harp.

Marisol took a deep breath. Normally, she would have been more than contented to listen to him play or sing in that beautiful language of his. But not this night. This night, she had other ideas. "Macalaurë?" she asked again, this time stretching out a hand to him. "Come to bed."

He froze, with the harp not quite off the peg, and then carefully and with graceful deliberation withdrew his hand and turned. "What?" His eyes were glowing, brighter than usual.

She smiled nervously. Now that the moment was here, she could only hope that he would take her offer in the spirit it was given. "You shouldn't have to sleep in the chair all the time when there's room for the both of us over here. Come to bed."

"Marisol…" She loved the way he pronounced her name with his accent. It would be so very easy to fall in love with him. Maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing…

But the look on his face told her she would have to convince him to do as she asked. "Do you remember the first night I was here, when I was so afraid you were going to want…" She blushed. "And you even asked me if I expected you to take…"

"I remember the discussion." His voice was soft, his gaze intense.

"I'm offering this time." She walked over to him and put her hand on his arm. "Come to bed."

oOoOo

It seemed like a dream. This child, this beautiful young woman, was offering herself to him. Her touch on his arm was electric, and every ounce of his attention was now on her. She smelled of the soup that her employer, Caleb, had allowed her to bring back with her to the cabin, a fresh and clean smell that was hers alone. Tendrils of her long, dark hair had escaped the single braid and curled in ringlets about her face. She was so lovely, and it had been _so_ long…

He lifted a hand that trembled to brush very carefully at one of the more rebellious ringlets, the backs of his fingers barely touching her skin. It was soft and smooth, and so warm. And her eyes were gazing up at him with true affection in their depths, the like of which he hadn't seen aimed in his direction for…

The realization hit him hard. This couldn't be! If he did as she asked, chances were that he would want her to postpone her trip, if not cancel it entirely. He would not be able to merely take a single taste and then resign himself to emotional starvation again; no, he would want the chance to cherish her for all of her days, to keep her with him, to love her.

And in the end, to watch her die.

It was one of the most difficult things he'd ever forced himself to do since the day he'd tossed his father's jewel into the Sea, but he could _not_ shirk this duty. She belonged with her people, not with him – _not_ with him! As gently and lovingly as he knew how, he put his hand over hers. "Never think that I do not appreciate your offer, child," he told her in a voice that shook with the strength of the emotions she had awakened. "But both you know and I know that this offer is best made to the man who owns your heart and will share your life with you."

Marisol stepped closer still, covering his hand now with her other one. "But you _do_ own my heart, in a way. You've been kinder to me than I deserved, even before you knew me; and you've always treated me with respect. You gave up your bed to me, and not once have you tried anything. This is one thing I can do for you to show you how much I appreciate…"

A forefinger pressed against her lips before she could say another word and destroy his determination to protect her from himself. He should not and could not taint her this way, nor let her demean herself this way. "Dearest one, your body is not now and never should be considered a commodity, something given in exchange for satisfying a debt…"

"That's not what I'm doing," she insisted, backing away from the restraining forefinger and now tugging very gently at his arm. "This is something _I_ want too." And in the depths of her gaze, something warm glowed back at him. "Please."

Oh, but he wanted to! To know himself loved and accepted was a treasure that he had denied himself for millennia, and yet here was his chance, tugging at his forearm quite persistently. And there was no way in all of Arda that he could _not_ take her into his arms and pull her close. He sternly schooled his body to obedience so that she would never know the depth of his desire for her, for such a discovery would undo them both and lead only to disaster. Instead, he tucked her against him and felt her arms surround him and hold him back. He closed his eyes and just allowed himself the luxury of enjoying the embrace, knowing that it must not last long and should never happen again.

But she deserved more, and she needed to know that nothing would happen, no matter how much she wanted it.

"I will always remember the offer you make to me this night with gratitude and pride, but I must say no. I respect you too much to do otherwise. Please respect my decision in this." When he felt her reluctantly nod and accept his decision, he brushed his lips across her forehead lightly. Then, regretfully, he loosed his hold on her and disengaged himself from her arms. "I promise you I am not uncomfortable in my chair, and it would please me to sing to you once more before you go."

Marisol stepped back away from him, her expression a mixture of sorrow and gratitude that made him wish he dared throw aside all his principles, all his certainties, and take her to him again for a night – a lifetime, _her _lifetime – spent in pleasures they both wanted. Instead he straightened his back, shouldering the responsibility for making certain things were done properly – at least this one time in his life – and then smiled at her. "Go," he said, pointing. "Tuck yourself in. And you can tell me which song you would like to hear."

He would sing to her all night, if that were her wish, his heart breaking with every phrase and chorus.


	4. Epilogue

Chapter 4 - Epilogue

"Do you think you'll ever, like, want to come to Nebraska for a vacation?" Marisol asked, playing with the handles of her rabbit-skin backpack that held everything she owned.

"I doubt it." Macalaurë's face was turned eastward, the direction from which the bus would come. "You know that I make enough to live on, but I do not have much extra just lying around." His hand landed gently on her knee as they sat together at the bus stop, a fleeting touch, quickly withdrawn. "And I do not enjoy traveling in large buses with so many strangers."

She had expected that answer, but she'd wanted to hope nonetheless. "Then I won't ever see you again, will I?"

"That depends on whether or not you ever have reason to come back out to California," he replied. "But I think it will be a long time at the very least."

She drooped, her fingers playing with the hem of the new jacket that he had given her just the night before as a farewell gift. As the tourist season began in earnest in this small, coastal California hamlet, she was on her way east, with a bus ticket that would take her all the way to Lincoln, where she would change buses to a local that would take her home. As much as she looked forward to seeing her parents, her grandmother and uncle again, she would miss the solid, supportive silences, the exquisite music and challenging conversations with her unlikely rescuer.

"I'll write," she promised, both to herself as well as Macalaurë. She'd never been one to keep up a correspondence, but then, she'd never left anyone behind that she cared about before in quite this way.

"I will be glad to hear from you," he smiled back at her. "You must promise me to continue your music, however. You have a good voice."

"Not as good as yours." She shook her head. "But that's an easy promise to make. When I talked to Mom last week, I asked her to get me some information about the community college. They have a music department. I'll need to save up some more money before I can afford anything, but I'm going to take classes eventually – music especially."

"That is well."

"I just hope someone there can keep teaching me the harp."

Macalaurë's smile widened. "That would also be well. At least your time out here would have brought you something useful."

"My time out here was very well-spent, despite everything else," Marisol told him firmly. "I just wish…"

"Yes?"

She hesitated. It had taken time to weasel his story out of him, and she was fairly sure that there was a lot more to it than he'd been willing to tell her. But she knew that he was as she had been, and that he would still remain apart from those he loved while she was going home. "I want you to be happy too, Mac."

One of those scarred hands ran gently over her hair. "I _am_ happy, little one, to see you able to go home again, where you belong. And you know Caleb will not rest until I accept his offer of a room in exchange for renovating the place for him. I shall be busy, and that will keep me content as well."

"Will _you_ go home someday?" There. It was out.

He shrugged. "That is not my decision to make." Then his finger was pointing. "Your bus approaches."

They both stood, and Marisol looked up into the face of one who had taken her in on the worst day of her life and given her back nearly everything since then. "I don't know how I will ever…"

"You can thank me best by having a good life," Macalaurë told her, his grey eyes shining in that special way they did every once in a while. "Do well by those who love you and care for you. And one day, you will have the chance to help another in the same way I helped you. Take it and know then that any debt you owe me is satisfied."

Feeling both brave and almost desperate, Marisol threw herself at him, wrapping her arms about his neck and letting his height lift her off the ground. "I'm going to miss you!"

His chuckle in her ear was like a warm sheltering blanket, and his arms around her a real treat. "And I will miss you as well. My cabin will seem quite empty now. It is probably well that I intend to accept Caleb's offer." Gently he set her back down on the sidewalk. "Take good care of yourself, and be happy, little one."

"You too, Macalaurë Fëanorion." It had taken days to learn to say his name properly, with just the right lilt.

He stood where Marisol could see him as she took her seat half-way to the back of the bus, and waved as the engine revved and her ride pulled slowly away. Her eyes remained glued to him, tall and lean and in simple jeans and a white t-shirt, until the bus rounded a corner and put him out of sight.

"That is one good-looking man!" The older woman in the window seat commented as Marisol settled herself back into her seat. "Your boyfriend?"

"No. Just a very good friend," Marisol answered, her mind playing back the events of the months they had spent together and remembering the sound of a rich voice singing words that were almost too beautiful to hear. She would love him in a quiet corner of her soul for the rest of her life, she was sure. "The very best kind."

oOoOo

_Dear Macalaurë,_

_I have so much news for you, and I wish I could be there to see your face when you read this. I'm getting married! His name is Tim Gantry, and I met him at the college. He was taking voice lessons, and was leaving as I was just coming in. We got together for coffee once or twice, and then he asked me out. That was last fall, and we've been seeing each other ever since. He asked me to marry him two days ago – can you believe it?_

_Mom, Dad, Gran and Uncle Pete all like him a lot, which means a lot to me. I think you would like him too. In many ways, he reminds me of you. He's quiet and gentle, likes to hum and sing when he's working, and can do some really neat things with metal. Best of all, though, he likes working in the hardware shop. I think Dad sees someone who might take on the family business after all._

_I have some money, and I want you to come to my wedding. I want all the people that I care about to see me on my happy day – PLEASE say that you'll come? Are you still living at the Brite Spot? _

_Write back soon._

_Love, _

_Marisol_

oOoOo

_To my dearest Marisol, greetings._

_I rejoice to hear of your engagement to your young man. Please know that, were it possible, I would gladly make the trip east to attend your wedding, complete with a song written just for the occasion._

_But, little one, this time it is I who have news for you too. I am going home, at last. Just a few days ago, I received a visit from a very old friend who told me that my time apart is finished now. By the time you read this, I will have sailed. As a matter of fact, I will put this note in the post as I head for the sea and the ship that waits for me._

_Thank you for brightening some of my last days on this side of the sea. Be happy for me, and have a very happy life with your young man. As for me, I will remember you, your pretty voice and lovely smile, until the stars go out._

_Namarië._

_Macalaurë "Mac" Fëanorion_


End file.
